


Mad

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Gen, Silly, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Lipwig is on his usual bullshit.
Relationships: Rufus Drumknott & Samuel Vimes, Rufus Drumknott/Havelock Vetinari, Sybil Ramkin/Samuel Vimes
Comments: 11
Kudos: 133





	Mad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gemothy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemothy/gifts).

When Vimes entered his office, it was spotlessly clean. The faint scent of fresh paper hung on the air, as well as a milder scent of furniture polish. Standing on the threshold, he surveyed the scene, examined the state of his old desk which had been polished to a bright shine, the glass frames on the walls that completely lacked their usual coating of dust, the floor, which was so clean one could eat off of it.

The trays for his paperwork had been relocated to a side table, and he whistled under his breath as he stepped forward, examining how neatly and perfectly each warrant, contract, intake form, and outtake form had been arranged into separate trays.

He looked over to his desk.

Mr Drumknott had not needed to adjust the height of Vimes’ chair in order to sit comfortably at his desk, but he had, apparently, taken it upon himself to polish the wood and the leather. It _shimmered_, and for the first time, Vimes was aware that the chair leather was a bright, shiny brown – he had previously thought it was black.

“Can I sit down?”

“If you like,” Drumknott said, and nodded tersely to the chair across from Vimes’ desk.

Vimes felt himself smile, out of exhaustion and out of powerlessness, and he put his hands loosely on his hips, looking down at the little man. Drumknott was not smiling. He had not looked up from Vimes’ paperwork the entire time Vimes had been in the room, and even now he neatly signed an intake form with a perfect forgery of Vimes’ signature, and no trace of shame for doing so.

“You do the Patrician’s signature that easily?”

Drumknott did not say anything, but looked up from the paperwork after he’d finished blotting it, standing up from Vimes’ desk and moving across the room, setting it in with the rest of the intake forms.

There were nearly forty-five, Vimes would guess, based on the size of the pile and on the scale of Lipwig’s bullshit today.

“Just came from his office,” Vimes said. “Had a screaming match with him. You know, Drumknott. One of those matches where I scream, and he raises an eyebrow now and then.” Vimes was in a good mood, now – he’d met Sybil before walking back to Pseudopolis Yard. For nearly forty-five minutes. Drumknott, he supposed, didn’t have that option – meeting the person who might put _him_ in a good mood would probably mean walking back to the Patrician’s palace… or spending twice his month’s wages on paperclips.

“I am familiar, your grace,” Drumknott said in a terse voice, straightening papers that were already straight. “Your experiences are not unique.”

Vimes opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to imagine Mr Drumknott screaming at the Patrician – tried to imagine Drumknott raising his voice to more than a whisper in the Patrician’s presence. Tried to imagine Drumknott calling the Patrician any – or indeed, one – of the names Vimes had called him this afternoon.

Tried to imagine Drumknott showing an emotion other than mild irritation.

“You argue with him?” Vimes asked.

“The Patrician has a great affection for Mr von Lipwig,” Drumknott said, after a long pause. He did not make eye contact with Vimes, but kept his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of his breastplate. “He does good work for the city, albeit in unorthodox and _wildly_ energetic ways—”

“Careful, Drumknott,” Vimes said in a low, mild voice. “That was almost feeling I heard, there. And Lipwig does do good work for the city – after the rest of us straighten up his madness. Vetinari only likes it because Lipwig is something he can’t predict – like the damned crossword.”

Drumknott’s lips almost smiled.

“Can’t be mad at the Patrician forever,” Vimes said gruffly. “Can’t clean my office any more than you already have, for one.”

“There’s always Captain Angua’s office,” Drumknott replied, the barest note of challenge in his voice, but Vimes didn’t think he heard any malice in it. “Your office was in a repugnant state, before I arrived.”

“This morning?”

Drumknott gave him a funny look. “Two hours ago.”

Vimes stared at his office. “Right,” he said, and awkwardly patted the clerk on the shoulder.


End file.
